


I Only Have a Heart When I'm With You

by tangofox



Series: Christmas Fics [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: It starts off angsty but turns into fluff I promise, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Slight Prison AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-10
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2018-01-04 06:47:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1077853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tangofox/pseuds/tangofox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas fic for Robyn!<br/>Enjolras and Grantaire meet again on the cusp of christmas after a kiss, a murder and a prison sentence</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Only Have a Heart When I'm With You

Grantaire hadn't seen Enjolras in five years. It's not like he didn't have the opportunity. He just couldn't face the facts. Five years ago Enjolras had been sent to prison for murder. The sentence had been shockingly light, but even then, the citizens of France had been outraged that their beloved Enjolras was being sent to prison. But there was no way he couldn't be sentenced to something, Enjolras had shot a very important government official in the head, live on television. But the people had cheered and had screamed Enjolras' name in joy, while his peers had watched in shock, not even knowing that Enjolras was planning such an extreme move. The judge had no choice but to give him the most lenient sentence possible. Courfeyrac had represented him as his lawyer, the rest of the Amis had stood in the courtroom and watched. All those except Grantaire, who at the time was blitzed out on a mixture of pills and whiskey, laid on his mattress, ignoring the texts from Jehan. He had found out the sentence three days later when consciousness finally returned to him.

Now he was the one bringing home France's beloved Enjolras. There were press everywhere, and just to be stubborn, Grantaire had make an extra special effort to look like he didn't give a shit about existing. Which really, wasn't hard. All his clothes were stained in paint, even his fingers had remnants of the charcoal he was sketching with this morning. All he seemed to do was paint, and draw, anything that could take his mind off existing. 

He hadn't spoken to Enjolras since the night before the murder. He had been gleeful, not his normal self at all. Grantaire remembered being terrified of him. The next time he had seen him had been on the news, all the Amis watching with mouths agape as Enjolras executed one of the most important government officials so all the cameras could see. The whole city practically erupted in applause. The man was corrupt, had been a despicable human being. And Enjolras was the saviour of France. Part of Grantaire had hoped he would never see Enjolras ever again. That their fearless leader would rot away in that cell. But even while he was imprisoned, Grantaire could not escape his fearsome gaze. Old pictures were plastered all over the papers, reporters were allowed to visit, documenting his time in prison. Everyone was so terrified Enjolras would out the system for being terrible, that he was allowed privileges most were not. 

Grantaire winces as the flash-bulbs from the cameras start to go off, blinding him enough to make his shaky hand almost drop his cigarette. For a second he thinks they've all got bored and decided to take some photos of Enjolras' escort. But as his gaze travelled upwards to the blinding light, he saw Enjolras, emerging from the gates, still managing to look both angelic and terrifying at the same time. But then Grantaire supposes, real angels would probably be pretty fearsome in their own right. He notices Enjolras has different clothes to the ones he had entered the prison in, and can't help wonder who pulled the strings to get him brand new clothes. 

Grantaire shakes himself off, forcing his way through the surging crowd of the paparazzi, managing to reach Enjolras and grab him by the arm, yanking him towards the waiting taxi. Thankfully Enjolras doesn't say a word to the press, and Grantaire silently thanks Combeferre, who was surely the one to tell Enjolras to keep his mouth shut. Grantaire pushes Enjolras in the car first, less than gracefully, and climbs in himself, shutting the door and begging the taxi driver to get them out of there, and quick. He wondered how many people would be running to their cars to try and follow them. Grantaire makes a point of telling the driver to circle round the city a few times, the last thing anyone wants is the press hounding people at the Musain day and night.

Next to him Enjolras had pulled out a laptop that he had asked to be in the car, and seemed to be checking his emails. Grantaire wondered if he had that privilege inside. More than likely. Combeferre and Courfeyrac never seemed to be struggling with the cause, Enjolras was likely on the other end of an old computer, ready to help any way he could. 

“Aren't you going to say hello?” Enjolras asks without looking up from the screen, making Grantaire jump. He had seen his face plenty of times over the past few years. He had not heard his voice. He had almost forgotten how passionate Enjolras could sound, how his words could make his spine vibrate. He doesn't bother asking if he could smoke in the cab, ignoring his shaking fingers as he lights up a cigarette, rolling down the window just a touch. 

“Hello,” He says simply, hoping that could be the end of it. He felt at a loss. He didn't know what he was supposed to do here.

“I know the fact that we kissed five years ago is probably an irrelevant fact right now, especially judging by the fact you have refused to visit me while I have been incarcerated,” Enjolras says in his cold voice. “But Combeferre informs me you haven't been with anyone else, and that you still class yourself as an Amis. So I suppose I am asking what you intend to do now I am released.”

Grantaire's face burned so brightly he wished the ground would swallow him up. He had half expected that over the years Enjolras had forgotten about the kiss. God knows he hadn't, but he assumed it was just the heat of the moment, that Enjolras was running high on adrenaline. It had been in the corridor leading up to the flats above the café, Grantaire had half-stumbled out there intending on going up to his flat to sleep, only to be grabbed by the wrist by Enjolras, and slammed into the wall. He remembers thinking about complaining, a witty insult on the tip of his tongue, all forgotten as Enjolras had kissed him with fervour, without explanation. It had started off hard, had melted into something else; Grantaire clutching at his shirt and kissing him back, Enjolras' slender fingers tangled in his dark curls. Grantaire remembers it as if they kissed for hours, but perhaps it was only a few minutes. Enjolras had kissed him again, just a peck, bid him goodnight and gone back out to the café. Grantaire had been left to stumble up the stairs to his flat, drunk and confused.

“Did that kiss even mean anything? Or was it an early apology for being a murderer,” Grantaire asks bitterly. He's not really angry anymore for what Enjolras did. Perhaps he's been swept up in the love Paris has over the years. 

“I kissed you because I knew I would not be able to carry out my work without consequences,” Enjolras replies with a frown. “I kissed you because I knew very well that might be the last time I saw you in a very long time. I wanted you to remember me that way. I wanted to remember you that way.”

Grantaire stares at him in confusion. For the past five years he had been living on the belief that Enjolras had been half mad, that the kiss had meant nothing, that as always, he had meant nothing to Enjolras. Yet his words speak different, make Grantaire's heart hurt in a way he hadn't felt for a long time.

“You don't have feelings for me,” Grantaire states, refusing to believe him.

“You are the most ridiculous creature I have ever met,” Enjolras snaps at him, and Grantaire tries to look away, only to find Enjolras' fingers grabbing at his scruffy jaw, forcing him to meet his gaze. “I kissed you and yet you still believe I have no feelings for you? Time has not changed me Grantaire, I am still the same person. You can either accept that and do something about it, or we can go our separate ways and I shall focus on nothing but the cause. Your choice Grantaire.”

Kissing him was not easy, just sudden. Grantaire felt his body tumble forwards, felt his lips crash against Enjolras' in a completely undignified manner. Enjolras is quick to take control of the kiss, to keep his firm hold of Grantaire's chin, to guide him into a softer kiss, though it lacks no passion, it's a kiss to make up for the fact they hadn't seen each other in five years. It didn't feel that long. It felt like minutes since Enjolras had kissed him in the stairwell, yet at the same time, Grantaire felt as if he had been waiting a thousand years for Enjolras' lips to touch his own.

They break away eventually, before their driver starts to get uncomfortable, Enjolras' fingers leaving his face to grab Grantaire's dirty hand, entwining their fingers and ignoring the charcoal stains, leaning into him as if Grantaire was the air he needed to breathe.

“Does that mean you accept the fact I have feelings for you?” Enjolras asks, his tongue running over his bottom lip.

“You'll never kill anyone again,” Grantaire responds quickly, and this time it's his turn to sound cold. Enjolras loosens his grip on his hand, but Grantaire only grips tighter, stopping Enjolras from pulling his hand away. “I can't...I forgave you a long time ago, but I can't forgive you again. If you do that again, you wont have me.”

Enjolras seems to consider it, which makes Grantaire want to be sick, and by the time Enjolras nods in agreement, he is sure that he's just foiled one of Enjolras' new plans. He decides not to dwell too long on the fact, he didn't need any more thoughts bubbling around in his head.

“Your room is occupied,” Grantaire tells him, desperately wanting to change the subject now. Enjolras had agreed and that’s all there was to it, he really didn't need to talk about murder and death anymore. “Combeferre and Courf put your stuff in storage, but they needed someone else to pick up the rent.”

Enjolras nods slowly, his fingers gradually tightening and gripping Grantaire's hand again before he pulls away quickly, the lack of warmth on his hand enough alone to make Grantaire feel sick. He watches in confusion as Enjolras unbuckles himself and puts the laptop on the floor, then pulls his legs up bent on the seat, lying his head down in Grantaire's lap. It felt so lovely and domestic, Grantaire could only imagine the smug looks on their friends faces.

“His name is Marius, I am sure you will like him, though not as much as Courfeyrac does,” He says with a little smirk, forcing himself to be brave, running his fingers through Enjolras' golden curls, his dark fingers a contrast against Enjolras' slightly lighter skin.

“So I am to be homeless, a week before Christmas?” Enjolras asks, raising his eyebrow. Grantaire doesn't miss the mischievous glint in his eye.

“I'll talk to Feuilly, I am sure he knows a homeless shelter or two you could kip at.”

That earns him a swat in the chest, and a grin so bright, Grantaire was sure it could dazzle angels. “I was rather hoping one of my friends would take pity on me,” Enjolras says, still smiling. “I haven't touched another human being properly in five years. All that has plagued my thoughts is the dream of sleeping next to someone.”

“I don't think Jehan is free-”

Another swat, harder this time, and now Grantaire can't help but smiling along with him.

“Are you trying to get an invitation Enjolras?”

“I could buy us a Christmas tree? I am sure your apartment is looking less than festive. And I can cook.”

Grantaire rolls his eyes, remembering Enjolras hadn't even stepped foot in his apartment before. “I'm going to be surprised if we can fit the both of us in there Enjolras, let alone a Christmas tree,” He tells him, stroking his brow when he watches it crease up into a frown. “I live in a literal shoebox. If I store away some paintings we can maybe live, but I don't think there is any room for fitting in a Christmas tree.”

“But you can fit me in?” Enjolras asks, with hope in his voice that Grantaire had only heard in reference to the cause before.

“Yes,” Grantaire says with a tired smile, leaning back into the car seat. “I can fit you in.”


End file.
